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TheUnexpected2nd
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Name: Evan
Country: United States
Gender: Male
Interests: God is my King, He's the purpose of my life, so I guess you could say that was an interest. Friends are good too. Debate and speech are way cool, so are back packing and biking and paintball, and frisbee golf and Ultimate and laughing in the sun
Expertise: Mostly meandering around feelin special
Occupation: Gaurdian
Industry: Holding up the sky
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  Feanorr999
Member Since:
3/30/2006
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| Sometimes I come here when I feel like there's no where else to go, a sort of an escape I guess, or maybe the final wall down a dead end street. Writing here is maybe me shouting in the dark or maybe its me banging my hands against the wall and denying its staying power. I came back here tonight and noticed that I still had Amy listed as one of my chief interests. Its been two months, as of last week, since she broke up with me. That fact still leaves me feeling lost. Some times people feel like they have things all together. Those times don't happen to me very often. Tonight it hits me harder then usual how untogether I am. I guess its okay. But a lot of times I think I'm kind of grown up or something, then I look inside myself, or hear a song, or see a picture, and my heart tugs and my emotions are a shambles and its just like those highschool days and I know I'll never grow up. Right now my mind is telling me to make an analogy to Luke Skywalker, but I'm pretty sure that isn't called for. Nothing makes sense. God makes sense. God is in charge. God has an awesome, beautiful plan. God just sighs at our bumbles and smiles when we ask Him why. He knows. He has it all together. But I'm too small to see the dots or the lines connecting them. Why am I happening? Why is Life happening to me? Living is so much like dying, hate feels so much like love, crying is similar to laughter, fear is a lot like hope. Everything is balanced on such thin lines. Shades of gray, everywhere. And then, suddenly, they turn shockingly black and white, and I find myself on the wrong side of the line. Reacting and reacting, never getting away from anything, turning the whole world into some sort of a merry-go-round. Everything comes back. History repeats itself, except always on a larger scale. The same things happen. And then God raises His hand, and something different, new, and amazing happens. And then, the world regroups, like ants in an anthill, and goes on, like nothing ever happened. Sometimes even we forget that anything happened. But it DID happen, and it WILL happen. And that, is why we hold onto the lighter shades of gray in the years of mundanity, so that when the flashes of brilliance, the seconds of beauty, happen, we are the right side of the line.
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| The little boy sits on the street corner. So patient, such wide eyes innocently accusing the world of being beautiful. Falsely. Or maybe that very urgent belief verifies itself. Maybe the crumpled child waiting fruitlessly in the gutter is more then a scar on the marred face of the ruthless ages, more then a symbol of Sin's united filth. Maybe it is a challenge to that filth. The girl cries from her third story apartment. Sobbing because she is thirteen, and sobbing because she has a right to do so. Our useless priveledges are our most useful, because they are with us forever, who would dare deny us a right that does nothing? And yet it does something. Maybe in our vain struggle we defy vanity and retain personhood. The bruises on her arms are not fair, the blood is not right. The sun still shines, and somewhere someone says "Today is glorious!" and believes their own presumption. Are they liars, or thieves of another man's right to die in a world devoid of laughter, or are they gods and kings, building small cities, setting up little lamps, defying the undefiable and creating reality from the pretend? The man is twenty two and he is running. He does not cry, because tears suggest a limit, no matter how great, to pain, and his has none. His empty eyes plead for the pain to rip his chest apart, but in vast cruelty, his body refuses to let him down. His running means nothing, it has no goal but to obtain the fullness of emptiness. But despite himself, he gets somewhere, and in that somewhere the sun is shining. He discovers that what he lost is not unretrievable, and he breathes. Some say he is a fool, but maybe he has discovered the only thing a man can do. Maybe. Or maybe not | | |
| The sand shifts softly
I am staring at the waves
Amazed, afraid in their silence
The moon speaks, so calmly
Ocean answers, desperately, returning to her feet
And I watch the romance of the Night
You don't notice, but I see
Your eyes reflected brightly in the sky
My star fades, til he's next to yours
Urgency steadies my hand
And for the thousandth time
I write your name in the sand
Bleeding to be alive, reality, relevance
Forcing my demons back into their box
They cackle, waiting, so patient
Almost snap, but your smile says I can breathe
The sea crashes around your name
Your star says these miles disappear
And I stoop again, tracing three letters
The beach, the waves, the sky,
Reveal these lines, scored deeply inside
All of a reflection of this little, frail truth
Beautiful in its smallness, inside of me
Beating all for you
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| He jerks awake with a start, the sight of the cold white ceiling stealing the smile from his lips. The frantic feeling. He's still holding the pencil in his clenching fist, grabs for his phone, irrationaly, eternally expectant, eternally disappointed. "Relax, Buddy, stay calm, breathe." He leaps from his perch on the top bunk, sighing sharply at the pain in his ankles. Such a long fall. His textbooks fall with him, in a clattering shower around him. The roomie glances up from his laptop with a slightly raised eyebrow, then re-immerses himself in his happy little world. The textbooks remind him of guilt. "Studying," he smirks disdainfully at himself in the mirror over his sink as he randomly runs his razor over the left side of his face. She can't call him, why does he always dream that she will, that she'll be there. "Its against The Rules. Damn The Rules, isn't there such a thing as liberation?" He glances sideways as he gallops down the stairs, someone has stepped on the cup of beer (or urine, he could never be quite sure which it was) sitting in the stairwell next to the 4th floor door. It has splashed on the wall. He sprints through the door to the outside world, the fading sunlight slanting off car roofs into his eyes in tired defiance of something. He slows to a walk. People everywhere. He feels so small again, they each have their worlds just like his, their world shaking fears, problems, all consuming triumphs (he wanted one of those, hadn't had one in a while),shallow jokes, empty smiles. "Do any of them matter, do I?" Had he woken up at all, or was this all just another dream, a fake, squawking, eternal farce of a dream plastered across his minds eye, stealing everything by giving him hope. Would this dream eternally rob him of her? He grimaces at the possibility. To hell with philosophising, how does it help him, or anyone, and yet, how can he stop and just breathe? Is that better, is their way better, are the zombies around him free? And he sighs slowly, dispairingly, because he doesn't know. And yet, it is not dispair, for he knows something. He knows that he loves her. | | |
| Grayson walked out of the shop trying to lick the ice cream out of his beard, hold onto his dissolving cone, keep Charlie from chasing pigeons into Ol' Bart's Antique Shop, and steal licks from his cone. He was very happy. Then he looked up and was deeply tired, and horrified. Deeply tired because Karl was in the middle of the street, and horrified because so was a bright yellow taxi cab. Dropping the cone, releasing Charlie's hand, and for a moment even forgetting the delectable desert in his facial hair, he dove into the road. Hitting Karl at the knees he flipped him over and out of the cab's way. There was a sickening crunching noise, and a flopping flapping like an ostrich on the rail road tracks. Karl thought this whole thing very convenient. Charlie thought it was hillarious when the flock of pigeons crashed through the antique shop. And as Grayson lay, bleeding the last part of himself out onto the street, he smiled up at the sky. It was good, how could it not be? This was chocolate ice cream in his moustache!
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